She lives, she works, she thrives
by Singkatsu
Summary: Freya's work defines her. It is all she talks about and all that she is known for. But what exactly does she do? A Grand Bazaar drabble series.
1. Who, Freya, are you?

_A/N: Writing challenges, after a brief several year hiatus, have finally returned! My writing buddy Kuneko wanted a satisfactory answer to what exactly Freya's job was in Grand Bazaar, so I tried to come up with one. A word of warning though - her job does not typically fall into the 9-to-5 workday, so take my offering with some suspended disbelief. Regardless, enjoy!_

_Who, Freya, are you?_

She was the girl who worked. Everyone in town knew it. Every day, at nine sharp, she'd be stepping outside those bizarre gates and on her way to the city. She was mature, she was sophisticated. She was the girl who brought city charm and finesse into small, humdrum, town life. Marianne would sit across from her every evening, teeming with desire for a recounting of the city fixtures – the skyscrapers, the neon lights, the bustling sites. Freya would weave that story for her, night after night, bringing the smell of street stands, gasoline and people to life. The city was her life and, in town, she was its spokesperson.


	2. Freya has got her work

_Freya has got her work_

Ivan always understood when she couldn't make their dates. He'd smile, hold her manicured hands in his ink-stained ones, and reassure her in his usual baritone voice. "You've got your work," he'd say, just as Joan would to any who would spread slander behind her back. Their defence was sound – what woman shouldn't be allowed to feel validated by their work? –and often worked to erase all problems. Freya _was_ her work, and, even if she was a little isolated, at least she had that. It was her identity, it was her shield, and it was her purpose. At least, it was to everyone else.


	3. Freya lives for her work

_Freya lives for her work_

They say she lives, but she doesn't. At least, that isn't always how it feels. So many conversations boil down to her work – how long her hours are, where she goes in the city, how it gives her a reason for being. Yet, these are all just surface questions. She can see the villager's eyes gloss over – when do they ever see? – willing to hear but never wanting to know. Even Ivan, sweet as he is, turns the conversation to school or hobbies or the weather. No one wants to be dragged into the drudgery of another person's life. Freya lives for her work (she exists for her work) but no one ever wants to know what it is. So, she doesn't tell them. Someday, she prays, someone will ask.


	4. Freya's in love with her work

_Freya's in love with her work_

Artistry, finesse, poise. These are all things that are involved in her line of work. The lights are always dim, the air filled with smoke, and the tables lined with bottles and glasses of gin. Metal shines, center stage, waiting for a performer to arrive. Freya flits around it, drinking it all in with her eyes; admiring the people one minute and being disgusted the next. She never relays these details to the people of Zephyr town, of course. She can imagine the scandalized looks and averted eyes if she were to tell them; if she were to tell them what she was.


	5. Freya hides in her work

_Freya hides in her work_

She does it to pay the rent. She does it survive. When she swings around the pole, necklace dangling, hair wild, she breathes in the heady scent of citrus perfume. Lady Butterfly they call her (as clichéd as it is) and she basks in the anonymity of the name. At home, she hides under the image of the working woman. Freya, the woman who does her nine-to-five and then spends the night at the café; Freya, the salary woman who had expensive tastes and always brought back tales from the city; Freya, the lady who no one really knew, but everyone assumed they understood. She hid in the identity at home, ashamed and petrified for them to know the truth. She hid at work, too afraid to expose herself to the greedy, hungry, soul-searching eyes, as she danced for no one but herself. These two parts of her, at odds and in conjunction, defined her. She wanted to cry out for help, but she was also entangled in the farce. With the way everyone spoke of it, what did work even mean? Perhaps that was the greatest trick of all – even Freya didn't know where she began and work ended.


End file.
